


kingdoms seem all shrivelly

by Byacolate



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Food Porn, Hermann is a pretentious novelist, M/M, Mako is a goddess, Newt is a barista, everyone has a bit of a crush on Pentecost, flirting through insults and cupcakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[can I call u prince cashmere?]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based entirely on Burn Gorman's neck in [this adorable edit](http://spookybyronsbloomers.tumblr.com/post/59253878812/pacific-rim-coffee-shop-au). It's the most awe-inspiring neck I've ever seen, so here's a coffee shop AU dedicated to it.

There’s a sort of smug sense of superiority that comes from having a published novel or two under one’s belt. Hermann finds this to be especially true on Tuesdays and Thursdays when he walks into the cafe down the street from his apartment and has the opportunity to look over all the starving young artists tapping away at their wafer-thin Macbooks.

 

On good days - the ones where he’s managed some semblance of productivity, when his ideas are flowing in perfect harmony with plot and character and he churns out pages upon pages in the space of a scant few hours - he turns up his nose at the children sprawled out across the modest coffeehouse. It is his kingdom, his domain, and he remains the only award winning author Jaegerbrew has ever seen.

 

 

 

On the days where he struggles to make the words come out, however, when his leg is playing up on him and he feels utterly uninspired, they grate on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

 

 

 

Fortunately for his nerves and his ego, Hermann knows when to settle himself in the cafe under optimum conditions. Hermann could probably recite the barista work schedule if he could be arsed to do so, and he knows when the student traffic lulls so much as to be nonexistent. He’s been a loyal patron of Jaegerbrew since the beginning, long before his success, when he was still humoring his father by way of receiving his astrophysics doctorate from the local university and Stacker Pentecost took over the neighborhood bakery from his grandmother. There was just something about him that Hermann  _liked_ , deep in his marrow. It could be any combination of several factors, really; he was a level-headed veteran with a good eye for character, the loving father a terribly sweet child he’d adopted overseas, a well-respected businessman with a soft spot for the local legacy his grandmother had placed upon him, a hometown hero,  _terribly_ dashing refined in everything he did, etcetera etcetera.

 

Yes, alright, Hermann knows very well his admiration for Pentecost is a little on the swooning maiden side. He can own up to that. Who wouldn’t swoon a little over Stacker Pentecost?

 

Hermann has seen people come and go. He's watched the shy little girl sitting on her father’s knee as he let her sample the bakery’s traditional pastries grow into a young woman with the finest palate of anyone Hermann has ever met. He’s been witness to all the renovations, the new machines, the conversion from a quaint little bakery to a modest coffee shop. His own metamorphosis from student to professor to author runs parallel with Jaegerbrew’s transformation, and it is for this reason that he feels such a connection to the shop and the family it has made of its employees.

 

“Wow, once again you are, like, so incredibly overdressed for a latte, dude.”

 

Hermann lifts his glower from the one student present - a somewhat familiar blond with musculature to rival Stacker’s - and allows it to settle sharply on the man behind the counter.

 

Everyone in the Jaegerbrew family lights a little flicker of warmth in Hermann’s chest, like a spark. The difference with  _this_ one is that he makes Hermann want to set himself on fire.

 

“This is hardly what I’d call overdressed,” he growls, letting the laptop bag slide off his shoulder onto the floor by his usual seat in the corner and limping to the counter. The cafe isn’t large or full enough to warrant private conversations whether up close or apart, so he might as well be nearer. For a better view of the fresh batch of pastries, of course. “Perhaps you only think so because your own sense of fashion is so sorely lacking?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have totally pegged a blazer and a purple v-neck as casual attire. Is that  _cashmere_?”

 

Hermann narrows his eyes and tips his head down just enough to regard Newton over the rims of his glasses. “You’re one to talk. Have you ever worn anything more professional than,” he waves a hand, gesturing at the plaid yellow overshirt rolled up to the elbows revealing his monster movie tattoos, and then at the skinny jeans tight on the barista’s body, “ _this_ in your entire career?

 

Newton has the nerve to snort. “Man, the best  _part_ about working for a privately owned coffeehouse is the whole lack of decorum thing.”

 

The young woman behind the pastry display makes a little noise like a laugh, and Newt swivels to look at her. She looks back at him with dark eyes and a highly amused expression. “Hey, if you could totally  _not_ tell your dad I said that, that’d be great, Mako.”

 

She tugs at a blue lock of hair framing her face and smiles indulgently. “Not a word, Newt.”

 

“Perhaps you’d better,” Hermann tells her, ignoring Newt’s gurgled noise of protest. “If upper management were to be involved, mightn’t certain parties see fit to dress themselves appropriately for work?”

 

“You know what?” Newt begins, his voice gone shrill. “If I wore anything else, you’d be devastated. These jeans are the only things that grip my ass like this. Anything else is totally wasted on me.”

 

Hermann recoils in shock and he feels his jaw drop for want of a response. He can  _feel_ the entirety of his face going red.

 

 

Perhaps he was too harsh a judge on the student population, considering the startled laugh from the young man at the table behind him takes everyone’s attention away from Hermann's reddening face.

 

“Uh, sorry,” the blond stutters when he notices their eyes on him. He looks from Mako to Hermann to Newton, and he seems genuinely surprised at himself. “Not to disrupt your conversation. Just. I’m sure that’s, uh… not true?”

 

It’s Newton’s turn to laugh then, and even though Hermann’s attention is focused nearly completely on him, it does not escape his notice that the student is giving Mako a sheepish little smile. “Nah dude, it’s true. See, I have an exceptional gluteus maximus that really only gets its time to shine when I -”

 

“For god’s sake, Newton,” Hermann snaps, fairly certain the color of his face has gone from blotchy pink to chartreuse at this stage. “Will you show some modicum of professionalism and take my order, please?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses, Grandpa,” Newton says, turning his back to Hermann and reaching for the machines.

 

It doesn’t matter how many times they have this altercation, Mako always gives him the same bewildered expression.

 

He doesn’t really have to give Newton his drink order, because he’s been a patron of Jaegerbrew before Newton had even immigrated, and in all the time Newton has been there, Hermann has only ever ordered one drink. What he admires most about Newton (because it’s certainly not his sloppy work ethic or skill with a comb) is the perfection with which he can create Hermann’s chai latte. There is always _just_ enough chai to bite his tongue, _just_ sweet enough to taste like a reward, _just_ the right amount of nutmeg sprinkled atop the milky froth to arouse his senses before he takes the first sip.

 

Hermann was not a boring man - he does enjoy a bit of variety, despite his singular and long-standing drink order - so he shuffles over to the glass display to find something new. “These look lovely, Mako,” he says, letting his eyes drift over the delicate cakes and custards and cookies. She makes a pleased little noise and looks over her shoulder at Newton.

 

“Newt has been learning to bake with me,” she tells him. Newton snaps to attention at the sound of his name, hand curled around the lever of the steamer. Mako’s grin is sly. “Would you like to guess which batch is his?”

 

“I knew you were gonna brag, you with your delicate touch,” Newton cries, stretching his leg out toward her in a half-hearted kick. Mako doesn’t even have to dodge. She giggles and nods toward Hermann.

 

“Go on, guess.”

 

“He doesn’t have to  _guess_ , of course it’s going to be the ones that  _don’t_ look like they were sculpted by culinary angels.”

 

Hermann chuckles under his breath, glancing up from a delicious-looking platter of eclairs to Newton. The machine is off, and Newton is staring intensely right back. Hermann’s smile fades a little as he looks down and taps at his lips with a finger. “Miss Mori, you have always been exceptionally masterful with chocolate, so I hazard a guess that all of the second shelf are yours.”

 

She doesn’t say a word and her face gives nothing away, but her eyes are sparkling and he is glad to have put that look there. He smiles back. “Am I wrong?”

 

“No.” She shakes her head. “Those are mine. Keep guessing.”

 

Hermann thinks he might have to admit that he is impressed. Everything looks just as delectable as it always does. But he thinks he can deduce this. Mako and Newton are as different as chalk and cheese. Mako’s creations are elegant and divine. Newton’s, he imagines, would be… expressive of his nature. Hermann lifts his eyes to Newton once again. He’s tapping nutmeg onto the frothy foam in Hermann’s cup. The way he hastily swipes a Sharpie from the counter and tucks it into his back pocket does not escape Hermann’s notice.

 

“I believe,” he drawls in the stuffy tone his grandfather used, just to make Newton’s lip curl, “these are yours. Lavender and dark chocolate, Newton? Really?”

 

“Hey,” Newton warns with a finger outstretched. “Lavender and dark chocolate are classy as hell separately. Combined  in muffin form, they’re just double the awesome.”

 

“They are very tasty,” Mako says diplomatically. “Would you like to try one?”

 

Newton scoffs as though Hermann wouldn’t dream of it, but Hermann can never say no to Mako. “I am always willing to try your recommendations, my dear. I will have one.” He turns an eye on Newton. His tone is far more confident than he feels when he says, “Don’t just stare at me with a slack jaw, Newton. Ring me up.”

 

That spurs him into action with a shrill litle noise of rage. 

 

“I _dare_ you to find _one_ thing to say about my baking prowess,” Newton grumbles as he rips Hermann’s receipt from the machine and all but chucks it at his face as Mako goes to warm up the muffin in the back. Hermann sniffs derisively and takes the chai latte from Newton’s grip. Once the cup is in his hand, though, Newton’s warm fingers are around his bare wrist and Hermann can feel his pulse spike.

 

“I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say about it,” is the only retort he can muster, feeling childish and shy all of the sudden. The penetrating look in Newton’s green, green eyes only makes the feeling intensify.

 

“Yeah,” he snorts. “You probably will.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hermann manages to finish five pages of his rough draft before the latte is gone, though the muffin remains untouched. He'd had honest intentions to eat it straightaway, since Mako had gone to all the trouble to heat it up and the looks Newton kept throwing his way were like physical jabs in the side of his face. It was his own fault for getting lost in the story. 

 

 

He's snapped out of his zone when the cup is at his lips and nothing runs into his mouth. Because it's gone. Because he drank it all. Because he's been there for nearly two hours without realizing. Hermann blinks and nudges his glasses up to rub his eyes. Then he peeks around the shop. The blond from earlier is gone, and two young women with their noses buried into textbooks have taken his place. Mako is no where in sight, and Newton is over by the bookshelf, talking animatedly to Tendo Choi, the evening shift manager.

 

 

Good. He's occupied. 

  
Covertly, Hermann tips the empty cup upside-down to peek at the bottom. 

_can i call u prince cashmere?_

 

Hermann coughs into his hand and sets the cup down firmly, thumbing at his bottom lip. He issues his computer screen a determined stare.

 

It takes all of fifteen seconds for him to give in and fish out the phone from his back pocket, texting furiously. 

 

[You most certainly cannot call me anything of the sort.]

 

When Newton's phone goes off across the room, Hermann sets his fingers down on the keyboard and types the lyrics of God Save the Queen in some cruel pantomime of actual work. 

 

His phone doesn't buzz or ring or beep because he has the foresight to silence it and disallow any distraction. But it does light up on the table beside him when a series of incoming messages are received. It is terribly embarassing how quickly he grabs for it, not even allowing for the illusion of self control. 

 

[o so we're adding this 2 the pile of things i cant call u]

 

[thats p cruel herms]

 

[im so full of creativity]

 

[exploding w it really]

 

[w hat about DOCTOR cashmere]

 

Hermann grits his teeth to keep himself from smiling and carefully sets the phone face down on the table and goes back to work. 

 

Or he tries to. He really does. 

 

But before he knows what's happening, Newton has sidled up and grabbed a chair, twisting it around backwards and plonking himself down across from Hermann. He mimics Hermann when he raises his eyebrows, which is childish and infuriating and Hermann _definitely_ isn't charmed by him at all. "What?"

 

"You didn't even try the muffin."

 

Following his gaze to the pastry between them, Hermann grimaces. "Yes, I am aware. On occasion I do tend to forget that there is food present. When I'm working."

 

"Yeah, I know." Newton tips the chair forward. He's giving Hermann a really good view of his muscled forearms smothered in tattoos, and that's only ever served to distract him. Pursing his lips, Hermann glances up to meet Newton's eyes. 

 

"Do you intend to sit here and watch me until I do?" he asks. It is intended as a joke, but Newt just leans back until all four legs of the chair are on the floor and makes himself comfortable. "Honestly, Newton."

 

"C'mon, you're the pickiest guy I know," Newton whines. "Just - come on. Just eat a bite. Tell me what you think. Who knows - I might improve or something. Or I might punch you in the face. I'm a bit of a wild card."

 

Hermann levels him with a glare before he takes the muffin in hand. The delicate purple paper cup keeps his fingers tidy as he lifts it to his lips and sinks his teeth into the thick, crumbly top. 

 

_Mother of god._

 

"Whoa. Good then?" Newton pries, and maybe Hermann said that out loud. He might be also be moaning. Who knows. Hermann lowers the muffin back to the plate and covers his mouth with a hand. 

 

"I may have a few things to say about your baking prowess," he finally says once his mouth is not full. Newton's brow furrows, and Hermann only just barely manages to keep himself from reaching out to cover the back of his hand. Or maybe force him back to Hermann's apartment to bake him into a food coma. "But none of them are negative."

 

Newt's answering grin is enough to make Hermann consider that perhaps locking him in Hermann's apartment with free reign of his kitchen may cross the line from fantasy to reality sooner than he thinks. 


	2. Chapter 2

It never ceases to amaze Hermann just how hysterical Newton finds his career. That is not to say that Newton disregards his debut novel, or the years of labor and dedication he’s put into his easy guide to theoretical mathematics. If anything, Newton seems to find those particular accomplishments Hermann’s only redeeming quality.

 

Whatever respect Newton pays to his earliest works does not carry over to his current project. In any capacity.

 

“Come  _on_ ,” Newton sneers over his shoulder as he cranks the steamer. “Why don’t you showcase your stuff in the bookshelf? I’m pretty sure ninety percent of the kids in here are pretentious enough to get a kick out of that shit.”

 

Hermann frowns at him disapprovingly for using crass language in the crowded coffeehouse, but Mako doesn’t seem to mind, so he won’t say anything about it just yet. “I agree with Newt,” she says thoughtfully, moving the two leftover raspberry and white chocolate chip cookies over to the tray to its left. “I love your books, Hermann. I think contemporary Austen rewrites are very clever.”

 

“And so original,” Newt snorts when she pulls out the empty cookie tray. Mako shakes her head and takes the tray to the back, leaving Hermann to glare at the cup in Newton’s hand. Damn him for crafting the blasted thing so perfectly; Hermann would like nothing more than to just leave the cup there and stalk away home. It’s a Friday anyway, and he’d known going in that it was going to be unpleasantly cramped at Jaegerbrew. But his leg ached and optimistically, foolishly, he’d thought that the calming aroma of the shop and something sweet on his tongue would make the jaunt worthwhile.

 

More the fool was he. Instead of the marginally irritating but ultimately fulfilling excursion he’d been prepared for, the very first thing to catch his eye was a group of obnoxious teenagers crowded around his table - and that alone was enough to rouse a possessive spark of anger in his gut. And it had only gone downhill from there. Newton appears to be in a particularly vicious mood himself this afternoon, and Hermann is not in a state of mind to exchange the usual banter. Not when he’s in pain and the cafe is too loud and he’s running on a scant few hours of sleep.

 

So he glowers silently at the cannister of nutmeg in Newton’s hand as he shakes it over the cup. Hermann doesn’t see the Sharpie, and judging by Newton’s attitude, he doubts it was something that just escaped his notice. Not that he’s come to expect the little messages or anything. Certainly not. And it is’t as though he was looking forward to this - Hermann refuses to give himself any expectations where Newton is concerned. He  _knows_ better. The sinking feeling in his gut is an amalgamation of any number of other little things.

 

Mako returns from the back with a fresh tray of cookies. Hermann’s got exact change in his hand and dumps it on the countertop, shoving it forward with his palm by the time Newton is thrusting the drink at him. And when Newton has the audacity to frown down at the money like he doesn’t know what to do with it, Hermann takes the cup from him and issues a curt, “Thank you,” to Newton and a somewhat gentler nod toward Mako before he spins on his heel to go.

 

“You don’t want anything else?” she calls after him, sounding as confused as Newton had looked. It pains him a little to be so rude as to ignore her - Mako has done him no wrong - but perhaps the place is crowded enough that she’ll come to the conclusion that he simply cannot hear her. His resolve to say no more only solidifies when his shoddy leg tenses up and nearly buckles just before he’s at the door.

 

The weather is entirely befitting of his mood - bitterly cold and dark and wet. The damp always plays with his leg, makes the old injury twinge and ache so badly that it keeps him awake at night. He wants to lie down and curl into a ball around a hot water bottle the size of a person, but he has a deadline to meet. His editor will be understanding if he soaks his leg in the bath or runs out for a coffee to wake himself up, but perhaps not if he spends the afternoon in the fetal position wallowing in self pity.

 

It is in good fortune that he lives so close to Jaegerbrew, barely even a five minute’s walk and one rounded corner down the street, so Hermann is back home and stripped down to his first two layers of clothing by the time bringing the scalding liquid to his lips is even negotiable. He limps into the bathroom and begins to fill the tub with hot water, tosses in one of the luxury bath bombs his sister sent for Christmas last year as a gag gift (one he isn’t going to tell her he heartily enjoys - her teasing nature is a force to be reckoned with) and leaves it to run for the moment.

 

He gets the inkling it may not be entirely medically sound to burn himself from the inside out by drinking his latte while soaking in the tub, but he feels rubbish, so. He’ll just have to throw caution to the wind - take a fragrant bubble bath with a latte like the wild deviant he is.

 

Hermann snorts to himself and shakes his head, retrieving the beverage from his kitchen counter and a bookmarked novel before he limps back into the bathroom.

 

The air is thick and heavy with steam that smells like roses - actual roses, dear god, his sister may love to tease but she spares no expense to do so - and once he’s undressed and settled himself in the scalding water, Hermann’s begun to feel a little better.

 

He soaks and reads until the latte is gone, and then carries on a full twenty minutes later until the water is tepid at best. It’s such a shame to leave the cozy, sweet-smelling tub, but he hauls himself up by the rail and pulls the plug. After a brief shower, Hermann feels exceptionally more relaxed and comfortable in comparison to the state he’s been in all day. He towels himself dry and retrieves his older brother’s worn, abandoned Cambridge sweatshirt from the back of the closet because he’s already luxuriated in a scented bath with a novel, he might as well remain true to his afternoon of self care.

 

Hermann is pulling on a pair of slacks (in case he needs to go out later, he truly isn’t in a mood to struggle with pants twice) when he hears the pounding at his door.

 

A furrow wrinkles his brow and he tilts his head to the side, as though he might be able to tell who it is all the way from his bedroom. He certainly isn’t expecting anyone - his editor isn’t meant to stop by until Monday, and almost anybody else he invites into his home is close enough with him to own a spare key. Perhaps it might be someone selling religion, he thinks, and if he takes his time pulling on the trousers they will go away.

 

Once he’s back in the sitting room though, he can hear a thunk outside the front door and frowns at it. On the countertop, his phone vibrates with an incoming text and Hermann ignores the door in favor of checking it.

 

[r u ignoring me or r u napping]

 

Hermann blinks. He looks toward the door before his phone buzzes again and again.

 

[maybe ur napping. u looked like u could use one]

 

[man i could use a nap]

 

[i have cake so i cant just leave]

 

[mayb e i’ll nap out here]

 

The rubber at the bottom of Hermann’s cane makes him silent when he trudges over plush rugs, which is probably why Newton can’t hear him from the other side of the front door and tumbles in on his back when Hermann pulls it open. He stares up at Hermann for a long moment until Hermann’s eyebrows have crawled up high enough on his forehead to warrant comment.

 

“What are you doing here, Newton?” Hermann asks, massaging the bridge of his nose while Newton rolls himself up and retrieves a box from the floor.

 

“Yeah, so - this is for you, man.” He takes Hermann’s wrist before he can make any moves for himself and balances the box on the flat of his palm. “I was kind of a dick to you earlier, I guess. Well, no, I know I was - you’ve never actually left the shop without some kind of pastry before, so it - I know it was bad. Uh. Mako’s been teaching me how to do this thing with dark chocolate, and there’s some salted caramel in there too, she says you like that stuff, so.”

 

Newt shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and shrugs. Hermann’s eyes go soft. His eyes flick down to the lavender box and he opens his mouth to say something when Newton cuts him off with, “Are you wearing a  _sweatshirt_?”

 

“And to think I was about to invite you in,” Hermann sneers, straightening his spine. Newt gapes at him like he hasn’t been inside Hermann’s apartment a dozen times before and easily sidesteps him with a sly grin. Hermann doesn’t know whether he’s more concerned that Newton took that as an invitation, or at the fact that he meant it as one.

 

“Did you light a candle, dude? It smells really great in here. Floral.”

 

Hermann ignores him and carries the box into his kitchen and lifts the lid to peek inside. Jesus. The cake is roughly the size of a dessert plate and unfairly lovely to look at, covered in a deep chocolate icing. An amber-colored glaze Hermann knows to be caramel is drizzled in artistic disarray over the top. He wants to throw caution to the wind and just shove his face in it.

 

His stomach gurgles demandingly and it is then that Hermann remembers that he hasn’t actually eaten since last night.

 

“Wow, I can hear that from in here,” Newton calls from the sitting room. It isn’t exactly far away, and the space from the kitchen to the sitting room is all open air, but he still finds himself going red.

 

“I’ve told you a hundred times,” he gripes, shutting the box and turning to the refrigerator. “On occasion, I can become… too preoccupied to remember trivialities like regular meals.”

 

“Yeah, if you think eating on a regular basis is a triviality, dude, we need to have a talk.” Newton is in the kitchen with him in a heartbeat, opening and closing his cabinets with increasingly obnoxious sounds of disgruntlement.

 

“Please  _do_ make yourself right at home,” Hermann says with gritted teeth.

 

“With pleasure. Hey, you got any cheese?”

 

Hermann narrows his eyes but checks around the refrigerator despite himself. He cannot remember the last time he bought cheese, but perhaps miraculously there might be some tucked away now that Newton has asked. “No,” he answers after he sees what he already knows to be lacking.

 

“Ground beef?”

 

If Hermann can’t remember the last time he had cheese, it must have been light years since he’s had ground beef. Still, he dutifully checks his freezer. “No.”

 

“Lentils? I can work with lentils.”

 

He narrows his eyes. “If I don’t have ground beef, what in god’s name makes you think I’d have lentils?”

 

“I dunno, man, you could be vegetarian. It’s not my place to question your lifestyle.”

 

“And yet you do just that every time we speak.”

 

Newt snorts. “Touche. Okay, Herms, you are seriously lacking in the food department. You don’t even have cup noodles in here. When was the last time you went shopping?”

 

“I really don’t think that’s any of your business,” Hermann sniffs, hoping that perhaps the derision will mask the reality that he doesn’t actually remember his last shop. “I order in when necessary.”

 

“Okay, well.” Newton zips up his jacket and claps Hermann on the shoulder. “Don’t even think about it. Sit down and chillax for a bit. I’ll be back in a sec.”

 

He’s across the apartment and out the door before Hermann can even think to ask him what the bloody fuck he means by that.

 

* * *

 

When Newton returns an hour later with a stuffed Lidl bag in each hand and a smaller plastic sack weighed down by wine dangling from his teeth, Hermann wants to punch him in the face. Instead, he hastens to take the bag from Newton’s mouth and shuffles backwards so Newt can come in. Once the heavy bags are settled on the counter, Newt shakes out his bright red hands and hisses. “God _damn_ , did I do good or did I do good?” His grin is bafflingly wide and Hermann nearly strangles him.

 

“What on earth - I am one man, Newton! I couldn’t eat all of this in a month!”

 

“Uh, false. You absolutely could. And you’re gonna.”

 

 

Hermann waves a hand at the overflowing bags. “Surely most of this will go off before I get around to making any of it.”

 

“Yeah, I used my super awesome brain to figure out that a hermit like you would be better off with dried or canned goods for that reason. This stuff has a shelf life to suit you perfectly, dude.”

 

Hermann feels a little flustered. “I - I am no chef, Newton. I am a writer and a physicist and not much else.”

 

“See, that’s why I got you all this great stuff with directions and recipes on the back, man. And when all else fails…” He thrusts out his arms with flourish. “I’m just a text away!”

 

He’s feeling drowsy and a little touched by Newt’s concern and all the effort he’s already put into making Hermann’s bad day a little better, so to keep himself from saying something potentially embarrassing, Hermann looks down at the wine in his hand. “I suppose you’ll want to stay for dinner,” he mumbles, peeking up to find Newton already faced with the task of pulling groceries out of their bags.

 

“Shut your pretty face and pour us a couple glasses so I can make you some real food,” he quips, eying two different jars of sauce for comparison.

 

That - that, Hermann can do.

 

* * *

 

Newton might be an apprentice patissiere, but when it comes to making anything but dessert, he is completely lacking in finesse. There is minced garlic and onion all over Hermann's countertop, diced into uneven choppy bits that Newton just dumps in a pan of spitting olive oil and leaves to sweat before he goes rummaging through a veritable stockpile of vegetables. He’s broken an enormous handful of spaghetti noodles into thirds and dumped them into a pot of boiling water, and it’s all very basic and mundane, but Hermann can’t stop watching his hands move.

 

The scent of garlic makes his mouth water and his stomach twist in hunger, but he does go rummaging for a few candles and sets them in the open living area so the scent won’t stick around too long after they eat.

 

“Seriously though, dude, I’ve never seen you in a - a comfortable outfit before,” Newton suddenly interjects from whatever he was saying not five seconds ago. Hermann had drifted somewhere in the middle of a spiel in regards to the anatomy of komodo dragons. He feels a little guilty for it, but he’s feeling sleepy and a little floaty from the wine.

 

“I am always comfortable in my attire,” Hermann informs him, pushing the long gray sleeves up to his elbows as he rummages through the kitchen drawers for a box of matches. “I am most comfortable when I’m sharply dressed.”

 

“I’ll bet you are,” Newt mumbles into his glass as he takes a swallow of cheap wine. Hermann considers following up on such an odd statement, but ultimately decides against it. Instead, he goes to light the candles and tosses the matchbox on the counter.

 

“If you don’t finish that in the next ten minutes, I’m going to eat this entire cake in one bite,” he warns Newt gravely, lifting the lid of the box for another peak inside. Newt lets out a shrill noise of outrage and thwacks the back of Hermann’s hand with a clean wooden spoon. Hermann gapes at him, completely lost for words.

 

“You’re worse than a kid!” Newt tells him, and waves the spoon at the table. “Sit your ass down and drink, you oversized toddler, geez.”

 

“I beg your pardon!”

 

Newt gently swats his ass with the spoon and Hermann gasps, going red in the face. “What - how dare you!”

 

“Sit down or so help me, I’ll lay another one on you.”

 

Hermann’s got to be twelve shades of red and despite his better judgement, he finds himself making his way to the table and dazedly taking a seat.

 

“Fifteen minutes, Hermeister, we’ll get you fed. Want an apple while you wait?”

 

He’s still sort of reeling from getting smacked in the arse by Hermann Geiszler wielding a spoon, so maybe he nods on autopilot. Newt rinses an enormous round apple in the sink before he’s rolling it across the table to Hermann and returning to the pasta.

 

Two bites into the sweet, crisp apple, Newt pipes up again. “Hey - seriously, about earlier? That was really out of line. I was a real dick about your work and it was totally uncalled for.” Perhaps it’s best that Hermann’s mouth is stuffed full of apple because Newt goes on to say, “And, for the record, totally inaccurate. I’ve read your Austenian remixes, dude, and I’m… impressed is a strong word, but. I liked ‘em. Mako goes on and on about your shit. She’s really petitioning for the collection to go in the shelf. She’d be really pleased if you okayed it, man.” He peeks over at Hermann with a little grin. “She’s got extra copies your collection stashed away in the back, waiting for you to say yes. She wants to feature you as a local artist. I think it’d be pretty cool, too. Maybe give you a little more publicity.”

 

Hermann’s bound to pop a blood vessel or two with how red he’s gone.

 

“Stir the noodles,” he says in lieu of anything else, and Newt is momentarily distracted. With all his tattoos, Newton is a bright splash of color and movement in Hermann's neglected kitchen. He cleans as he goes, forearms turning and flexing every time he opens a drawer or brings the simmering sauce to his mouth for a taste. His godforsaken plaid overshirt and the thin grey tee underneath ride up when he has to stretch on tiptoe to reach something in Hermann's cupboard.

  
  
Hermann's never going to get any work done at this rate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nearly all of my newt/hermann headcanons involve food, and conversations with [tasteslikesocks](http://tasteslikesocks.tumblr.com/) have only made it worse.


	3. Chapter 3

 

“You should stay.”

 

Newt’s all but thrown himself over half the couch, one leg stretched out half under the coffee table, the other splayed indecently wide. He’s slouched down so far his ass is perched on the edge of the dark red leather, both of his shirts ridden up where his shoulders rest against the back of the sofa. He’s squinting at Hermann, but Hermann isn’t sure whether that’s because he’s feeling derisive, or because he cannot see without the glasses resting on the coffee table.

 

“Hmwah?”

 

“Newton, really. You’re dreadful about holding your liquor, and you’ve gone and drunk all the wine.”

 

“Nope, no, you had a hand in there,” Newt slurs, reaching out to poke Hermann on the chest. Without his glasses, the withering stare he’s trying to give Newton probably goes entirely unnoticed. He takes Newton’s hand from his chest and pushes himself to his feet to extinguish the flickering candles about the room.

 

“Two glasses is hardly comparable to what you managed to raid from my cupboard. And I’m no lightweight.”

 

“Lightweight! I’m - wai - Hermann, did you tell me to stay?”

 

Hermann looks up from the rising curl of smoke on the mantlepiece. “Oh. Yes. I couldn’t ask you to try and find your way home in such a state.”

 

“I’m not in a  _state_.”

 

“Your neck can barely support the weight of your head. Although if you insist, you are more than welcome to leave -”

 

“You’re seriously no fun, you know that?” Newt grapples for a cushion and lobs it at him. It falls laughably short of the mark, but Hermann still bends to pick it up and chucks it right back at his face. “Of course I’m gonna stay. We haven’t even eaten that cake yet.”

 

 _Bollocks_.

 

Newt squints at his face and makes a little noise, a sort of indignant screech in the back of his throat. “You were waiting for me to pass out, weren’t you? You wanted it all for yourself, you greedy little shit.”

 

“And rightly so,” Hermann sniffs peevishly. “I assumed I was entitled to my apology cake.”

 

“God, you’re bossy,” Newt grunts. He sits up and fumbles with his glasses before they rest in the appropriate position on his face. “Grab the cake and a couple of forks, man. Let’s gorge ourselves until we drop.”

 

“I expect that won’t take long where you’re concerned,” Hermann ribs him as he shuffles over to the kitchen counter. This time, the cushion does meet its mark.

 

* * *

 

It’s difficult to believe he’s not in a state of mild shock, it’s so extraordinarily delicious.

 

He's on his third piece of cake and Newton has all but stopped every movement in his body to watch him with wide eyes. Hermann cares not a whit if it means he can greedily take all that cake for himself.

 

"Where the fuck do you put it all?" Newt finally blurts, transfixed on the way Hermann pulls yet another bite of the moist, achingly dark chocolate from his mouth. His teeth are probably smeared with chocolate, so he brushes over them with his tongue before mumbling,

 

“Really Newton, I thought you said you majored in biology. Surely human anatomy -”

 

“Alright, alright, smartass. That stuff is  _rich_ , dude. I could barely make it through half of just one piece.”

 

“And you could barely make it through half of just one bottle of wine. I’m sensing a pattern.”

 

Newt punched him good naturedly in the shoulder and cried out as though some great indignity was being committed when Hermann took another bite. He went quiet for a while, sagging against the sofa with droopy-eyed contentment, and Hermann almost thought he’d fallen asleep until he said, “So it’s good, then?”

 

“I don’t understand,” Hermann began, and then stopped himself, horrified that he’d begun to speak with his mouth full. He pressed his fingers to the back of his mouth as he chewed, glaring at Newt for good measure as though he’d tricked Hermann into behaving so impolitely. “I don’t understand why you seek such constant validation Newton. The avocado pumpkin cupcakes were good. The mango ganache scones were good. I cannot even fault your cardamon cookies.  You are truly skilled in your craft.” He quirked an expectant eyebrow and looked pointedly at the plate in his lap. “How much further do I need to stroke your ego before you let me finish this cake?”

 

“You can stroke my ego as long as you like,” Newt snickers to himself, sliding backwards until his shoulders hit the arm of the sofa. Hermann glances up to see him sigh with his entire body, the length of his throat exposed as his head dips down over the armrest. It can’t be comfortable like that - the blood rush to Newt’s head is going to be unpleasant, what with all the wine in his system - but he doesn’t seem to mind.

 

It’s indecent how high his shirt stretches up when he drapes one arm over the back of the sofa and the other falls over to brush the floor with his fingertips. He’s got his left knee bent and leaning against the sofa and the right parallel with his arm, sprawled over the side in a way that has them splayed wide in those damnable skinny jeans and gives Hermann a perfect view of the colorful tattoos that follow the line of his iliac crest and the trail of dark hair below his navel -

 

And what  _interesting_ socks he’s wearing this evening, yes, Hermann would not put it past Hermann to wear bright rainbow-striped socks to work. At least they match.

 

“Shall I fetch you a blanket, Newton?” he asks before his eyes and his mind focus on anything but the colorfully socked toes nudging his hip. Newt takes that moment to rub a hand over his exposed belly and utterly tramples that effort into dust. “Yes, I’ll do that. Yes.”

 

It was the wine that had him curling a hand over Newton’s bent knee to hoist himself up. Really.

 

* * *

 

With Newton making himself comfortable on the sofa, Hermann sleepily set about to tidying up the kitchen. Though ‘tidying’ was perhaps a generous term for putting the remainder of the cake back in its box, dropping the wine bottles into a recycling bin, dumping everything in the sink without so much as a rinse, and huddling everything else together on the countertop to dispose of properly come morning.

 

Silent were his footsteps as he tread over the plush carpet to peek over the back of the sofa at Newton. He was just as ridiculous in sleep as he was awake - mouth hanging open, splayed out in all different directions like a haphazard starfish, only half covered by the blanket so erratic were his limbs. Hermann snorts and shakes his head and squashes the urge to tuck his limbs in under the duvet and brush the messy hair from his forehead. He squashes it like a bug. There are just some things that cross the boundaries of intimacy and - well, watching someone sleep probably crossed that line pretty thoroughly.

 

Hermann was quick to retreat to his room then before he embarrassed himself _in front of_ himself further.

 

* * *

 

“Look,” Newt said, rushing around Hermann’s living room in the morning like it was a perfectly acceptable thing to do, “Pentecost the Penteboss just called me in for a shift, Chuck had to take his dog to the vet or something, listen - there’s a mess of shit on your counter there and that’s what I'd like to call breakfast. I really wish I could stick around and devour it with you, but I’ve gotta get down there. There’s blackcurrant syrup in the microwave - don’t give me that look, dude, just chow down.”

 

Hermann blinks blearily at Newt as he wiggles his way into the leather jacket and stuffs his feet into pre-laced boots. All the information processes at a snail’s pace in his mind and when he finally croaks, “You made breakfast,” Newton pauses. His grin is far too bright for eight in the morning on a _weekend_.

 

“Yeah man, I made breakfast. I was experimenting a little.”

 

“God help us.”

 

Newt snorts and gently manhandles Hermann to the table. “American style pancakes with cream cheese, blackcurrant syrup, and crushed pistachios on top. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

 

“That’s the most sensible thing I’ve ever seen you make,” Hermann yawns, and Newton - Newton toussles with his hair. He must still be dreaming.

 

“Just wait until I make you maple and bacon cupcakes. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”

 

“I’d like that,” Hermann says before he can stop himself being too honest. He licks his lips and glances up into Newt’s surprised face. “Well? Didn’t you say you’re due at the cafe?”

 

“Shit, yeah,” Newt catches himself and returns to his whirlwind of motion as he finds his keys and wallet. He’s out the door before Hermann can send him off with a proper farewell.

 

* * *

 

[so how r my pancakes]

 

[did u put th nuts on top]

 

[r u laughing bc im laughing]

 

SENT: [For god’s sake, get back to work]

 

SENT: [Pancakes were lovely. Bit too thick for my tastes. Americans and their dishes usually are.]

 

[u like my paunch so i wont take offense 2 that]

 

SENT: [They could be improved.]

 

[wat no you have to keep evryhing in]

 

SENT: [I’m not proposing removal of components; I’m SUGGESTING another.]

 

[im listening]

 

SENT: [Banana]

 

[inside pancake?]

 

SENT: [Sliced on top of cream cheese? Then drizzled in syrup, then your pointless nuts.]

 

[oh herm talk foodie 2 me]

 

[no but srsly that’s rly good]

 

[w/ bananas tho - maybe crepes would b better?]

 

[or ur ~~english pancakes~~]

 

SENT: [Sounds marvellous.]

 

[u want some this week maybe?]

 

[im game if u r]

 

SENT: [Is this before or after the maple bacon cupcakes?]

 

[u could just let me cook u b reakfst every morning]

 

[sry that was weird]

 

[im notp ropositioning u]

 

[okay maybe a little bit]

 

[but like its not as weird as it snded]

 

[im not saying i should actually make u breakfast evryday]

 

[that would b unrealistic]

 

[we'd have to GO OUT fr brekfst SOMEtime]

 

[hermann that was a joke im not suggesting we eat breakfast together everyday]

 

[thereby implying we wake up in the same vicinity every day]

 

[hermann pls tell me ur taking another rose bath]

 

[oh yeah i saw the bath bombs i just want to say u have a rly good taste]

 

[also u smell like roses]

 

[also ur hair is pretty]

 

[hermann]

 

[prince cashmere]

 

SENT: [I'm in a meeting with my editor, Newton, was all of that really necessary?]

 

[idk man im slacking off on the job i don't see why u cant do the same]

 

[rude tbh]

 

SENT: [If you stop talking, you're free to make me breakfast any time you like.]

 

[im gonna nede a key to ur place]

 

SENT: [You could just make me dinner and stay the night. That seems to be your thing.]

 

[wow ur rly forwrad today]

 

[was that typo seductive to ur eyes]

 

[u have nice eyes]

 

[okay done talking i should probably get back to work]

 

[wait did last night count as a date]

 

[i feel like it shouldnt because u didn't even hold my hand or my penis]

 

SENT: [NEWTON]

 

[god ur so disruptive im trying to run a business here]

 

SENT: [I regret every decision I've made that has led me to this point.]

 

[thats a little dramatic dont u think]

 

[hello]

 

[ur royal assness]

 

[i dont work tomorrow do u want breakfast]

 

[what does the fox say]

 

SENT: [I'll be home around seven. Bring the wine.]


	4. Chapter 4

[yo]

 

 

[howdy ho]

 

  

[hallo wie bist du]

  

 

[how can yuo be ignoring me already]

 

 

[like u always do]

 

 

[it's almost like nothng has changed]

 

 

[like... like u didn't confess 2 wanting all 5"7 of this]

 

 

[in a roundabout but secretly erotic way]

 

 

[this thing between us is so new]

 

 

[so fragile]

 

 

[like a baby bird]

 

 

[surley u should b shwering me w attention]

 

 

[i meant surely, but surley seems 2 get my point across]

 

 

[if it werent also a typeo]

 

 

SENT: [Have you ever considered reactivating autocorrect?]

 

 

[when the sun rises n the west nad saets in the east]

 

 

SENT: [Don’t.]

 

 

[when the seas go dry & mountains blow in th e wind like leaves]

 

 

SENT: [stop]

 

 

[when ur womb quickens again & u bear a living child]

 

 

SENT: [If I had been ignoring you before, no jury would convict me.]

 

 

[a jury full of nerds might]

 

 

SENT: [Yes well I am always in danger of that.]

 

 

SENT: [But I wasn’t ignoring you.]

 

 

SENT: [In fact, if you’d walk forward six paces and take a sharp right, we could be speaking to each other properly.]

 

 

SENT: [Why I have engaged with you like this thus far is beyond me.]

 

 

[bc its quirky n cute]

 

 

[and ur little hipster heart loves this sort of thing]

 

 

SENT: [Of the two of us I’m the hipster??]

 

 

Hermann lifts his head and purposefully drags his eyes down Newton’s body. He takes in the beanie (inappropriate for the workplace, Mako is so lenient), the yellow checkered plaid, the skinny jeans and the chunky boots that they are tucked into and the corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. Newton catches the direction of his ire and rolls his shoulders back, preening like a particularly colorful bird.

 

[checkin me outt]

 

“Oh for god’s sake.”

 

Newt snickers and pushes himself away from the counter. Hermann busies himself with the open laptop before him and waits for all of four minutes before there’s a brand new steaming cup set before him and a pastry alongside. Hermann eyes the creamy white frosting atop the cupcake and the neat little red paper cup speculatively.

 

“Go on, take a guess.”

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Hermann lifts the fairy cake, only a little charmed by the smattering of red sprinkles. When he looks up, he is even _less_ charmed by the look on Newton’s face as he stares right back at Hermann. There is absolutely nothing charming about his face or the way he’s in desperate need of a shave. “I’d wager I could spend a week trying to guess what ludicrous combination you’d concocted next, and still I would not manage it.”

 

“Is your middle name wet blanket?”

 

“Why would my middle name hold any bearing on my behavior?”

 

“I can’t believe this is what we’re reduced to when I come offering baked goods.”

 

Hermann takes a moment to stare at Newton over the rims of his glasses. “Really? Can’t you?”

 

That earns him a decidedly uncharming little smirk. “Touche.” Newt takes Hermann’s empty cup and before Hermann can protest, he lifts his arm and throws it toward the garbage can on the other side of the room. When it miraculously manages to disappear inside the bin and not go ricocheting off the rim, Newt lets out a whoop of delight and Hermann rolls his eyes heavenward. “That, my cynical friend, is the culmination of all the skill I gained from a thousand years spent training on a mountaintop.”

 

“I feel we may need to discuss the difference between reality and comic books again,” Hermann said with exaggerated concern, lifting the new cup to his lips and taking a delicate sip. Naturally, it was perfection in liquid form, and if Newton ever learned Hermann was using his turn of phrase like that it would be the end of an era of superiority, and that just would not do.

 

“Uh, the only difference is in the dimensions dude, now put that cupcake in your face and worship my uncontested skill.”

 

“Ah,” Hermann chuckles, slowly unpeeling the red paper cup, “your lips say _arrogant prick_ , but your eyes say -”

 

“Eat my cupcake, you big stud.”

 

Hermann nearly drops the cupcake and quickly shoves it in his mouth to keep from saying anything stupid. He nearly chokes in his haste, but isn't that a natural price to pay for sheer and utter avoidance?

 

The frosting is sweet and rich, but the cake itself is a little tart and light as air. He takes another bite, then another, and when he finally catches himself and pauses to take a moment to savor it, Hermann looks up at Newton again. “The frosting…" he begins when his mouth isn't full, "... white chocolate?”

 

Newt grins like Hermann’s just brought him early Christmas and it’s ludicrous, really it is. He clears his throat and takes another, smaller bite. “Cranberry,” Newton confesses while Hermann is busy wracking his brain for the flavor of the cake, and he curses himself just a little for not identifying the tartness sooner.

 

  
“It was perfect,” he says once he’s polished it off, can’t help licking his fingers clean like the heathen he’s become. “The frosting wasn’t as overbearingly sweet as it could have been, and it complimented the lightness of cranberry perfectly. How festive of you, Newton.”

 

“I thought I’d bring a little holiday cheer to the grinch,” Newt somehow managed to say past his mile-wide smile and nudged the latte closer to Hermann’s hand. Hermann met his eyes and just for a minute he smiled back. Perhaps it was a little unsettling for Newton to receive Hermann's smile rather than a comeback because he stood abruptly and snatched the paper cup from Hermann’s hand. “Get back to work, slacker. I’ll text you later.”

 

“Please don’t,” Hermann sighed, but Newton just  sauntered away and tossed the crumpled cupcake holder toward the bin.

 

He missed by a scant few inches and, feeling vindictive, Hermann pulled out his phone.

 

SENT: [A thousand years training on a mountaintop?]

 

“Oh my god, shut _up_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little short, I know, but a tumblr anon wanted another chapter for Christmas, and it's all I can do to oblige. Happy Holidays, nerds.


	5. Chapter 5

"Why do I feel like you're not being completely honest with me right now?"

 

Newt throws his hands in the air and waves his phone around in a way that Tendo would hazard against were it anyone but Newton Geizler - partly because Newt's proved that his chaotic veneer lies a decent amount of self control; primarily because there's nothing he could say could possibly convince Newt's manic tendencies to be tempered. "Excuse you, but I have proof, Judgey McNaysayer!"

 

 

The gentle clap of a tray on marble made him swivel around to face Mako, who was eying both of them with critical fondness. "I'm not sure Hermann would want you to share your private texts with other people," she says, carefully diplomatic.  


 

"I wasn't gonna!" Newt insisted, pointing the phone accusingly at Tendo. "I just needed this asshat with his skeptical eyebrows to know that proof exists."

 

"You're not buying it, are you, Mako?" Tendo snorts, wielding his eyebrows like a goddamn magician. They convey every thought in his well-coiffed head with artful precision, damn them. "There's no way the good doctor caught on to Newt's crushing lust vibes."

 

"Dude!" Newt cries, but Mako just smiles in that subtle, knowing way she shares with her father.

 

"It's true," she says, and just like that Tendo is convinced. His mouth hangs open for the longest moment before he snaps it shut and shakes his head. Mako laughs, checking the loaf in the oven.

 

"I can't believe it."

 

"Newt wasn't the only one radiating crushing lust vibes."

 

"Mako!" Newt gasps, scandalized.

 

"Well, that's what they are," she says, and Newt deflates a little. They aren't wrong.

 

Tendo disappears to man the register while Mako pulls the honey apple bread from the oven, and Newt moves automatically to shove the waiting, risen dough inside to take its place. "I can't believe you guys had a name for my pining that I didn't know about," he grumbles, and Mako's laugh this time is quiet.

 

"Don't feel left out. At least nobody opened a betting pool on when you'd finally confess your feelings. And how." Newt's eyes narrow at how incredibly specific this nonexistent betting pool is. 

 

Mako's smile is sheepish. "Not for lack of trying on Chuck's part."

 

"That blond bastard."

 

Her hand on his shoulder is gentle and her smile sweet. "Don't take it to heart. They only thought it might have taken you a while to come to terms with your feelings yourself. You and Doctor Gottlieb are like children with no clue how to handle your affection."

 

"See, I feel like you think you're being supportive."

 

Mako's eyes crinkle in mirth and she squeezes his shoulder before going to scrub her hands in the sink.

 

The evening rush mellows out an hour or so later and once Tendo has clocked out with a few choice words to Newt about his romantic prowess, he turns to Mako and says, "So, speaking of radiating heart boner vibes and blonds, how's your little friend?"

 

He almost feels bad when Mako drops the stack of plastic lids she's about to replenish in the dispenser. Almost. To ward off the feeling he lurches out from behind the counter and helps her collect them from the floor. The tips of Mako's ears are bright red, which is just too precious, and she shakes her head.

 

"I shouldn't have teased," she says, "I apologize."

 

"Damn right," Newt sniffs. But he nudges her shoulder and grins to alleviate the embarrassment coming off her in waves. "I take it there's been no actual progress then?"

 

"I think he tried to give me his number last week," she says, her voice nearly a whisper it's so quiet. Newt blinks.

 

"You... think?"

 

She's hasty to stack her collected lids on the counter-top and disappear into the back, and Newt winks at the small cluster of teenagers in the corner of the shop who’ve stopped to watch them. They snort and roll their eyes and push each other out the door and Newt waves them off enthusiastically as though to ward them off all the faster.

 

“He wrote a number on the receipt,” comes Mako’s quiet voice as she returns with a fresh stack of lids in one hand and a folded piece of paper in the other. Newt takes the receipt and examines it for a hot second before he’s giving Mako judgey eyes. 

 

“You _think_ he gave you your number? Because if you’re not up for the commitment of being totally one hundred percent certain, I will step up to the plate for you, dude, because this is definitely his number. For you.” He squints and tilts his head, pulling back when Mako makes a grab for the receipt. “Raleigh Heart Ecket? 

 

“It’s Becket, I think,” Mako defends. 

 

“Did he draw a heart and then try to pass it off as the letter B? Yeah, no, you’re right, this is totally ambiguous. There’s no way to tell if he wanted to give you his number at all.”

 

She laughs and punches his arm, and he definitely doesn’t keel over from the intensity of her upper body strength. 

 

“Alright,” he grunts, shoving the receipt back at her, “okay, if you keep Nintendo from talking smack about my dalliances with tall, pale, and English, I won’t tease you about your little golden retriever.”

 

“Deal,” Mako agrees. 

 

She punches him again for good measure. Newt doesn’t think that’s entirely necessary. The numbness in his arm concurs.  


 

 

* * *

 

“So I think we should date.”

 

Hermann’s eyebrows do that thing where they lift about an inch up his forehead and then do this aerial swoop as he processes his retort, which manages to drive Newt absolutely up the wall and make him feel impossibly smitten in turns. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says in that insufferable tone of that insufferable accent with those insufferable eyebrows, holding up their joined hands in an insufferably pointed manner, “have I been terribly presumptuous all this time in assuming that’s quite what we’re doing?”

 

“Har har,” Newt sneers, squeezing Hermann’s hand. “Maybe you could use your big throbbing genius brain to infer that I was referring to romantically-inclined activities enjoyed by the both of us together, as opposed to a mutual state of being.”

 

“Being with you has dulled my ‘throbbing genius brain’ considerably,” Hermann sniffs. “I think you’ll find I am rather distressed by it.”

 

“I think you’ll find,” Newt mocks in that blustering accent that infuriates Hermann in the same manner Hermann’s eyebrows do him, “you haven’t vetoed my date proposal, which I’m going to take as a jolly good sign, old boy.”

 

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

 

“Not as much as I’m embarrassing you,” Newt sing-songs, swinging his hand and Hermann’s back and forth until he’s forcibly stilled. “We could do something super classic, like dinner and a movie maybe.”

 

“Ah, your definition of classic is ' _abysmally cliche'_ , is it?”

 

“It’s not abysmal until milkshakes and aquariums are involved,” Newt defends. They’re taking an afternoon stroll through the park on Newt’s day off, because Hermann is an old man and likes things like this, and Newt finds himself quite incapable of saying no when Hermann invites him along on these grandpa adventures. He’s remarkably spry for an elderly gentleman trapped in the body of a dude as Newt’s age with the whole leg injury thing; Newt is going to chalk up having to work to keep up with him to the wholly insignificant difference in the length of their legs. 

 

The sun isn’t out because of course it’s not, but Newt’s looking pretty bangable in his leather jacket and unflinchingly bare hands if he does say so himself, and Hermann’s got this whole disgustingly precious thing going all bundled up in probably ten cardigans under his mammoth parka, woolen gloves situated snugly between Newt’s fingers. He wants to make out a little, but there’s an old lady feeding ducks by a pond within eyesight so Hermann probably wouldn’t go for that.

 

“Hey, so how much do a guy’s chances of getting laid increase if he takes you to a science museum? I’m asking for a friend.”

 

“That rather depends on the friend,” Hermann says after a thoughtful silence spent readjusting the grip on his cane. 

 

“Super hot in a scruffy kinda way. Petite. Covered in sick tattoos. An absolute dynamo in the sack. You’d love him.”

 

“Oh, indeed? He sounds like a pain in the arse.”

 

Oh god. Hermann being playful. Newt _really_ never needed another vice.

 

“Only if you’re very lucky,” he says instead of the million other things threatening to come out of his mouth. Hermann laughs though, an unfairly charming sound. His eyes are crinkling at the corners and his mouth is stretched impossibly, beautifully wide.

 

Newt doesn’t even check to make sure there isn’t a scandalized granny watching from afar as he situates himself in front of Hermann, steadying hands at his waist as he stumbles in surprise and plants one awkward kiss on his chin. 

 

 

The second one he stands on his tiptoes for and definitely gets it right.

 

* * *

  
  
Hermann's got his mouth around Newt's finger and his entire brain has short-circuited spectacularly quickly.

 

Of course, he'd swiped it along the inside of the bowl, held it up, and joked about Hermann's mouth doing wicked things to it, but that's all it'd been - a joke. Mostly. Somewhat. It'd really just been wishful thinking wrapped around a comfortable layer of realism.

 

And then, calm as you please, Hermann'd cocked an eyebrow there in the kitchen beside him and craned his neck down just enough to draw the lemon glaze between his lips - suggestive enough as it was, warm and sticky and a near translucent white and god. _God_. He's got a hand around Newt's wrist to keep him steady as he draws his tongue over the pad of Newt's finger, sucking gently for any remaining flavor, and agonizingly slowly he's dragging himself up and off until his lips are a mere brush against his digit, wet and hot and pink. His tongue flashes out almost like an afterthought over Newt's fingertip before he pulls away entirely.

 

"Well?" he says archly, eying the bowl resting forgotten in Newt's woefully unsucked hand. "Are you going to finish that? I _would_ like to eat tonight, if it's all the same to you."

 

He never thought it'd be in such a sexy manner, but Newt's certain of it now; he's going to die, and Hermann will be the one to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should explain why it's taken me like... six months to update... and I'm going to pretend it's the fact that those six months were pretty distracting and creativity-sucking in between a move from Ireland to America and then one to China... and I'm going to stick with that and not that I'm just shit at multichaptered fics with a terrible habit of fandom-hopping. If you could all pretend along with me that'd be swell. Also, if I didn't have a couple persistent tumblr anons to occasionally kick at me about this fic, this update probably wouldn't exist. I love you, anons. You make me better. Or at least marginally less-terrible. xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Anything for You' by Ludo: _I've gotten drunk and shot the breeze with kings of far off lands / They showed me wealth as far as I could see / But their kingdoms seemed all shrivelly and they cried with jealousy / When I leaned in and told them about you._
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://byacolate.tumblr.com/).


End file.
